


A Natural Shift

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Humor, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After something unexpected happens between he and Cas, Dean is at a loss. Because what do you say after your best friend comes in his jeans from just your kisses and the words you curl in his ear? What are you supposed to say to him, after that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Natural Shift

After dinner, you grab the keys from the counter and try to slide out the back door.

But Sam sees you. Drops his math book and booms: “Hey, you heading out?”

“What it’s look like?” you huff, but that’s enough to get Ellen’s head around the corner and Jo’s around behind.

“Be back by one,” Ellen says, stares until you mutter:

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Say hi to Cas for me!” Jo chirps.

“Yeah,” Sam says, waggling his eyebrows. “Say ‘hi’ for me too.”

You give him the death glare, but he’s reaching for Jo, fake monster growl in his throat. Her happy girl squeals chase you out the door, push you to the curb where your baby’s waiting. 

As soon as you turn onto his street, you can see Cas moving; he hops off his porch and jogs out to meet the car. Gets the door open before you can stop, slides in while the wheels are still turning.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathless. His cheeks all red from the cold.

“Uh, hey,” you say, keeping your eyes on the road. Because maybe you’re not as ready for this talk as you thought.

He leans back and doesn’t ask where you’re headed. But you feel his eyes on you, easy, as you make the next right.

**

You take him to your place, the space you claimed as your own freshman year. The one Cas found when he got lost during gym class. He’d wandered off the path that cuts through the woods behind the track and discovered a little cut that looked out over the pond. That you couldn’t see from the path.

He dragged you back there the next night: you bitching because you kept tripping over tree roots, him grinning and tugging on your coat: “It’s right here, Dean. Just over here.”

And when you stumbled out, saw the school on the other side and the little lake all soft in between, it was all you could do not to break out the flag and claim that land for Spain.

So four years later and it’s still yours, this place. 

You’ve talked about bequeathing it to Sammy or some shit, leading him to the promised land and showing him the best place to bury the beer.

But it’s early yet. Still the topside of October and you’ve got plenty of time until June. There’s no reason to rush.

Cas drops down a few feet from the water’s edge. Stretches out in the leaves and the last of the summer grass.

He sighs. Content.

What you can’t figure out is: how the fuck is he so calm? 

You haven’t seen each other since it happened, haven’t even talked on the phone, and here he is acting like it ain’t no thing. Like everything’s normal.

Why isn’t he nervous?

Why are you?

You dig up the last of the six pack and tuck it between you. Manage to drink for a while without talking.

You stare out over the water, at the school, but you know that, beside you, Cas is balancing his beer on his chest, breathing deep and slow and even. Like he always does.

You pop the top on your second before Cas has taken more that two sips of his first. Because Cas drinks like he does everything else: careful. Deliberate. 

He kisses like that, too. Careful. Deliberate. Until you bit his lip and then he’d moaned, opened all the way up and let you work him over sloppy, until he was kissing incididary, hot fast pants over your throat as you stroked him, pushed one palm between his legs and used the other to tip his head back so you could smother that sweet slick mouth with your own.

It’s only happened once. That one time. Last Thursday.

You were in Cas’ basement, in the little corner he’d set up as his workspace: college brochures pinned to the wall, books in neat little stacks at your feet, a whiteboard filled with his future. Names and deadlines with a row of checkmarks marching behind.

It was quiet: all his brothers out, his dad god knew where, his weird electronica bullshit beeping along in the background.

You’d been struggling with comparative government, with the structure of the Israeli knesset, and Cas was leaning over your shoulder, sketching something in your notes and pointing: “See, there’s a prime minister _and_ a president. And it’s a coalition-based system, because there are so many political parties that—”

He’d ducked his head, tried to get his pencil to the margins of the page, and then you’d kissed him.

And instead of shouting, instead of biting your lip and running for the hills: he’d made this little sound in his throat and kissed you back.

Then he’d yanked you out of the chair, dragged you to the laundry room wedged behind the stairs: clean towels everywhere, abandoned. Shut the door and let you grab him, let you pull him against your chest as you leaned back against the wall, the hum of the dryer white-noising his groans away.

When he’d come, bucking into your hand like some wild thing, some free-range version of Cas you’d never seen before, not ever, he rolled your name into a curse, slow and gutteral, and the sound is still in your chest now, as you sit beside the stupid lake behind your freaking high school, the bane of your fucking existence, next to the love of your life.

You drain your second can and reach for the last one, your third, careful not to brush Cas’ leg that’s lying right there beside you.

He’s close. So goddam close.

He has been for a long, long time, but what do you say after your best friend comes in his jeans from just your kisses and the words you curl in his ear, from the press of your hand against his zipper, against what you’re convinced must be a beautiful cock, the way it curved under your fingers, the way he cried out when you traced the head and then shushed him, let him lick his moans into your mouth.

What are you supposed to say to him, after that?

You told Sam what happened, and that was bad enough. You kinda glossed the details but the kid is smart, he knows you too well, and you sorta needed to talk about it. Unfortunately.

But Sam didn’t laugh, didn’t harass you like you would have if the tables were turned. Just listened and let you stutter through it. 

When you were done, he said: “You need to talk to Cas.”

Which, yeah. No shit. It just took you a few days to work up to it.

All at once you realize that it’s really, really dark. No moon, no stars, nothing.

Maybe there were safer places to have this conversation. Places with fluorescent lights and other people and TVs and cell phones and distractions that would keep your mouth from shaking just from the smell of his aftershave that he totally wore because you told him liked it once.

Because you do, but you didn’t mean it that way, not then, but it’s kinda unfair for him to use that against you now. To change the meaning like that without asking.

Ok.

Ok. 

You clear your throat.

“So,” you say, your voice a little creaky. “Um. I guess we should talk.”

Cas pitches up and looks right at you.

“Ok,” he says.

And neither of you do.

Awesome.

You turn away, manage to down half of your beer before he says:

“What do you want to talk about, Dean?”

“Um,” you fumble. “I—uh. You know. The thing in your. Basement? I’m sorry, wait, I—”

You’re stuttering worse than a virgin in a whorehouse, kiddo. Keep up the good work.

Cas moves, plucks the can from your fingers and sets it aside.

Careful. Deliberate.

Uh oh.

He’s in your face a moment later, tucked into your side and god, he feels good.

He nuzzles your neck, laughs a little when you choke, a laugh that turns up into a growl—a growl? _Cas_?—when he drags his tongue up your neck, just a touch.

“So,” he says, that voice warm against your ear. “Are we talking? Or are you gonna let me kiss you?” Press of lips on your cheek. Quick. “Dean. You wanna talk, or do you want me to push you back in these fucking leaves and make you come?”

He shudders when he says “come,” and hey, that’s the Cas you know. The one who blushed his way through the sex talk in middle school, who ran out of the room halfway through _Basic Instinct_ , the one who’s responsible and obedient, who’s memorized the MCAT score he’ll need in four years time and always remembers Ellen’s birthday, even when you don’t.

This is your friend, Cas, the guy who can still recite his locker combination from sophomore year and actually talks to his teachers by choice and doesn’t know shit about cars. He’s the one in your lap, the one shoving you back into the dirt and kissing you as fucking uncarefully as he can, miles of tongue and these little nips to keep your mouth in line, to keep you right where he wants you, where, god--you sure as hell want him.

What happened, what changed, why this guy you’ve known your entire life suddenly became flame, heat and light in your hands and the most important person in your world—you have no freaking clue.

But it feels like a natural shift, like your baby does when she’s dying to switch gears, the hum in her frame that lets you know it’s time to go. That’s what it feels like, to have Cas, your best freaking friend in the universe, driving his hips into yours, sucking on your tongue and holding your jaw in his hands, gentle, like you’re the most important person in his world, too.

He does you one better: pulls your cock out into the cold and jacks you, laps at his own fingers and does it again and again, panting in your ear and saying your name like it’s something sacred and dirty. When you come, he groans with you, cups his hand around you and catches you in his palm. He lays back, panting, goes to pieces as you kiss him, as he ruts against your thigh.

You lay there, cold and wet but breathing in the same air. You feel his mouth flutter as he uncoils, as he winds his way back down, and he sighs. Happy.

“Dude,” you say, testing the words out on his neck. “I know I’m hot, but you gotta stop coming in your pants. What’re you, 12?”

He rears up and punches you in the shoulder, all noodly and weak, huffs: “Pfft! You’re 12!” and it’s like nothing’s different, even with you splashed all over him, with him spilled all over inside. Because of you.

So when he leans over in the car, just before you drop him off, and says “I love you,” pushes his lips into yours just a little, just a tease: it feels kinda normal.

When you growl and grab his hair, knock him back into the seat and kiss him fucking _right_ , give him something to dream about, damn it, rock your thigh between his legs and wake up his cock, well.

That just feels awesome.

He pushes you away, gasping, pokes you in the chest.

“You’re an ass, Dean,” he says with a grin.

He rolls out of the car—a little wobbly, thanks to you—and stumbles up the front walk. His jacket’s an awkward bundle in his arms, clutched tight to his waist, not really hiding a damn thing. You wait until he’s got the door open and blow the horn. He turns back, laughing, and gives you the finger as you drive away.

Your baby rumbles and you shift gears, easy. Head on towards home.

**Author's Note:**

> For lovemejawn, by way of thanks.


End file.
